The sudden kick slammed square against my back and sent me tumbling into a set of plastic trashcans which thankfully cushioned my fall as I crashed to the ground, scattering garbage everywhere. From behind me Brett Marshal chuckled and said, “Who’s the douche now, ass-clown?”
Before I could respond with what I’m sure would’ve been an extremely clever and biting insult, my parents’ bedroom light came on and Brett took off running. I climbed to my feet and brushed a used coffee filter from my shirt as a black F250 screeched to a halt in front of my house. Brett hopped into the truck’s flatbed and it pulled off with all the stealth and finesse of a schoolgirl on LSD just as my dad yanked open the kitchen door, wearing nothing but boxers and his “SHUT UP AND FISH!” T-shirt.
“What the hell?!” he shouted as he watched the truck pull off and then turned to glare at me. I quickly pointed toward the tree draped in toilet-paper. My dad saw this and he let out a weary sigh. “Fuckin’ kids…”
The TV was on when I returned to my room, the screen displaying the same static shot of Videohead’s lair as the night before. I guess this should’ve seemed strange to me since both the television and VCR had been off when I left the room. But considering the preceding events of that night, I barely registered the anomaly as I climbed back into bed.
